Counting the Scars
by Darke-Faerie
Summary: Dazai spends an evening reminiscing about his past, and where his scars come from, whilst making a few new ones. Teenage, Mafia Dazai, Detailed Self Harm! Suicide!


**WARNING – **There is self harm, mentions of past self harm, lots of scars, attempted suicide and a character death. Do not read unless you are in place where these will not affect you.

_This is a teenage mafia Dazai. As far as I'm aware there's been no explanation for the scars/bandages/his childhood yet so this is my logic behind them. I did intend to leave the ending open, but got a bit carried away. _

Dazai left the bathroom, towel around his waist when he showered was the only time his bandages came off, the sting of water, soap and shampoo bubbles in part healed cuts a fun addition to bath time. He pulled on a pair of boxer shorts and grabbed a fresh roll of bandages from the drawer. He locked the bedroom door before he opened another drawer, pulling out two white envelopes and placing them on his bed, he took out knife wrapped in a thick fabric, the colour faded with age. He sat in front of the full-length mirror, until the week before Mori had helped Dazai to wrap the bandages across his body. But he wouldn't stop pestering Dazai to explain where the multitude of marks came from, Mafia business never cut it as an excuse when you're dealing with the mafia boss himself. Asking Chuuya to help was out of the question, his concern was enough whenever he saw the extend of the bandages when they were in bed together. Dazai had brought the mirror the day before, fed up of missing a spot, his clothes rubbing the delicate scars was a pain he could do without. He met his reflections eyes, everything seemed brighter without the eye patch to hide the permanent black eye he had, Mori was still at a loss as to what had happened. It had been a while since Dazai had seen his naked reflection, the patchwork of scars now seemed more like a tangled web. He touched the jagged scar across his neck, despite the years it was still as red as the day his mother had inflicted it. Despite his and several bottles of Mori's finest liquor's best efforts the memory was still clear.

His parents had been arguing, his mother glowed with her ability – super strength as she went to hit her husband. Dazai grabbed her around the waist, a child desperate to stop his parent's self-destruction. Her glow stopped. The shouting paused,

"You freak!" she yelled, stomping in the kitchen, returning with a knife. She had always had a love-hate relationship with her own ability and a loathing for anyone else who had one, Dazai had never understood why. He had been backed into a corner by his father, he stepped out of the way as Dazai's mother tried to slit her sons throat.

Dazai had woken up a few days later in a hospital bed. The nurse told him his father had brought him and explained the situation. He would not be going back home with his parents, the nurse told him to focus on his recovery anytime he asked where home was going to be. The day he was to be released; his parents visited him. They looked…happy.

"We're better off without you Dazai," a pause, "I never wanted a child anyway." His mother said, there was a frosty edge to her voice.

"Finished what was started" his father told him it was their family mantra. Dazai had heard it from birth at dinners, competitions, when school or his extra-curricular activities were getting to much for him. They were not a family of quitters. His father handed him an item wrapped in thick black fabric, Dazai pulled the item out, the kitchen knife his mother had used. Tarnished with his blood.

Home ended up being the streets. Dazai looked down at his legs, after leaving the hospital he had started by cutting himself every night, he had alternated between cutting his legs and forearms, practising with a variety of different sharp objects, followed by learning how to treat mild infections. His fathers' words were always in the back of his mind, but practice made perfect. Some days he wishes he had left his legs alone, several of the scars still ached from the infections he had gotten, he had tried wearing a pair of skin tight jeans for Chuuya, even with the bandages the rub of the fabric had caused him too much pain.

He traced the scars from his thighs to his hip, a small diagonal scar stood out, it was barely healed, he had spent the day before pulling the dissolvable stiches from it which probably hadn't helped. It was one of a handful of scars he had that hadn't been self-inflicted, he had stopped the gifted from attacking Chuuya, but had misjudged how close the knife had been to him. He moved up, mixed amongst the scars were small marks, Chuuya insisted on marking him, something to make him smile when he looked at his body. He hated to admit the redhead was right, he smiled despite his plan, the marks did make him feel loved.

His gaze turned to his forearms, despite his best efforts, he still had patches of unmarked skin. He traced the thick scars than went from his inner elbow to just before his wrist, first the one on his right arm, then the left. He always felt that the two scars mocked him, proof that he was not fit to be a Dazai, he couldn't even finish what was started, reminders that his first suicide attempt was a failure, Mori just happened to be walking past the alleyway he was in, as Dazai sank the tarnished kitchen knife into the flesh. He knew Mori only saved him because Elise had disappeared the second she touched Dazai, and he knew a nullifying ability would be useful to his plans. He would never tell Mori he knew that, just like he would never tell Mori he had taken the tarnished knife from the drawer it had been locked it. He didn't know why Mori had kept it, part of him was glad. It comforted him.

He took a deep breath, the tears were starting to fall, he hated to do this to Chuuya and Mori, but he had to. On a mission the other day, he could've sworn he'd seen his parents, playing with two young children. He knew it couldn't be as Mori had told him shortly after he became the Mafia boss that his parents had left the country, the tone of his voice implied that they may not have been alive when they left, and Dazai had no reason not to trust that it was the truth. But seeing them, doppelgängers or not, reminded him it was time to finish what was started.

He pulled the knife from the fabric. The door handle rattled. He had spent too long looking at his scars. He pressed the knife, horizontally, on the bare skin of his wrist, he didn't register the pain of the blade biting into his skin, he repeated it on the other wrist. The blood dripped down onto the roll of bandages left on the floor. The door handled rattled again, followed by a knock.

"Dazai?" Chuuya's voice came through the door.

Dazai's tears fell harder, why weren't the cuts working? He pressed the knife to his wrist again, vertically this time, he pushed the blade down harder this time, repeating it on the other wrist. He let out a gasp of pain, the blood was coming out faster now, his room spun.

"Huh, I guess he must be with Mori," Chuuya muttered to himself from the other side of the door.

Dazai dropped the knife, a dull thud, echoed in the quiet room.

Hearing the noise Chuuya kicked the door open,

"Sorry" Dazai whispered

As he lost consciousness, sliding to the floor.

"Dazai!" Chuuya ran to Dazai's side.

"Please, you can't die, Please" he kept repeating the plea. He knew it was pointless long before Mori appeared and confirmed Dazai's fate. His time in the mafia had taught him what a dead body looked like.


End file.
